


ART

by EvanBlack



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Light Angst, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22127044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanBlack/pseuds/EvanBlack
Summary: Scully fakes sleep while Mulder doodles.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	ART

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not re-post to any other site without writer's permission.

Fox Mulder is bored

So bored he's breathing on the car window beside his head and drawing meaningless doodles in the steam. It's a cool night and the glass steams up easily every time he starts afresh.

A tree. Wipe.

A house. Wipe

A spaceship. No Wipe. 

Mulder admires his spaceship. Shit, that's pretty damned good. He should keep this one and impress Scully.

He glances over at his partner but she's still asleep - her beautiful, pale face turned towards him, her rose-red lips slightly parted and wholly kissable. 

It's on the tip of his ego to poke her in the ribs and pretend he didn't, so she can wake up and admire his spaceship. He goes back to it and adds exhaust ports. Then he adds a flashing light on the top. Then - to give his creation perspective - he adds him and Scully, lying in the snow beneath the spaceship.

'Hey Scully?' 

She doesn't wake up. He doesn't quite have the balls to poke her in the ribs though. Scully can wake up very cranky sometimes and if she has even the slightest inkling that he's woken her deliberately, then very cranky isn't going to be the half of it. They've been on this stake-out for three nights now and Scully has got crankier with each passing sleepless minute. 

Suddenly Mulder's not unhappy she hasn't woken up; to have her finally asleep and not bitching about this so-called assignment Kersh dreamed up for them is something of a relief.

He studies the spaceship fondly. It's lifelike. And he and Scully should know!

Shit, he's a pretty damned good artist.

************************************************  
Mulder's a terrible artist. 

Look at him. Poking at that steam like a toddler.

What the hell's that? A tree? A firework? A fountain?

And that? A car? A TV? A cardboard box?

Now he's doing a football. A spotty football. With two legs. What the hell?

Oh look, he likes it! Look at him admiring it! It's too cute!

What's he putting on top? A cherry? Oh! it must be an ice cream sundae. That's the cherry and those legs are straws or spoons or some stupid Italian wafer.

Now he's got some sticks lying underneath it. Maybe the whole thing's a fire and that's the smoke. Or trees and that's the cloud. Who knows? He's the worst artist I've ever seen.

Shit! that was close. He looked right at me then!

'Hey Scully?'

Cheek! He said that right out loud, even though he knows I'm asleep. Which I'm not, obviously, but he doesn't know that, does he? 

Truth is, I got so sick of hearing myself bitch about this no-hope assignment that I finally thought the only way to shut myself up was to tell Mulder I needed to go to sleep. Give us both a break. I mean, it's not his fault we're here but, unluckily for him, I never get the opportunity to spend three nights in a confined space with Kersh, so I take what I can get.

Okay, he's looking at the sundae/smoke/cloud again now, kind of cocking his head like he knows he can improve it but he doesn't know how. I wish I had this on video; I could make him squirm! 

**********************************************

Mulder wipes him and Scully out of the artwork, then breathes on that bit of the window again. This time he draws him on top of Scully. That's more like it.

He looks out the windscreen and gets all still as he contemplates how easy it was to draw himself on top of Scully. He wishes life were made of steam. 

How deep is he?!

***********************************************

Oh, I see, it's a person. A stick figure, not a stick. Easy mistake. With another stick figure on top of it. Is he going to stack em up? No, he's sticking with two - geddit?! ho ho I should be in comedy.

Now he's gone all melancholy. He SHOULD be melancholy - he ain't no Picasso! Is he contemplating the romantic life he never had? Starving in a garret? Selling sketches on the streets of Paris? He tugs his earlobe - is he thinking about cutting it off?

I'd better stop this. I'm so funny I'm going to laugh out loud in a minute and give myself away. Stop it Dana. Just stop it. Remember your last dry-cleaning bill, that'll knock the smile off your face. Hell, yes. It was a big one. That exploding shit factory or whatever it was. I was distracted by Mulder flirting with that woman with the ridiculous name. Bimbo or Bobo. Something like that. 

Hm. That worked. Don't feel like laughing at all now. I must remember that trick when Mulder invites me to the opening of his dreadful one-man steam-art show. Bastard. 

Now the bastard's rubbing out the sundae/smoke/cloud and the stick figures with his elbow. Really hard, like suddenly he hates them. He still looks all sad. I wonder why? I mean, without sarcasm, I wonder why? Just a minute ago he looked like a puppy with two tails but now he--

Breathe slow Dana! Breathe slow and steady! He turned and I can feel his gaze on my face. Maybe he's realized I'm faking it. 

Ssssss! He's touching my face! Is there mustard on it? We had hot dogs earlier although, of course, Mulder had my sausage and I just got a bun and mustard. I was supposed to have both buns but he claims he forgot and by the time he remembered it was too late. Hoo boy. What a life we lead. 

If there's mustard on my face, it must be all over the place, cos he's running his fingers all over my cheek and next to my lips, very gently so as not to wake me. Why doesn't he do it with a napkin? - we got a whole bunch with the hot dogs. Asleep and covered in mustard. How attractive. I bet he makes it sound even worse when I wake up though. I bet he tells me I looked like a popped boil. No wonder he never makes a move on me. There's not enough time between me getting covered in one noxious substance and the next. Mom's always telling me I'm an attractive woman and any man would be lucky to have me, but that's her job, right? I face the living proof of the reality every day at work. Every day Fox Mulder doesn't make a move on me is another day I have to face the fact that he - what's the title of that book on Oprah? - oh yeah, He's Just Not That Into You. 

Me. He's just not that into me. 

I sigh before I can catch myself and I feel his fingers leave my face. I shift in the seat a little to make it seem realistic.

After a few moments I hear him breathe on the window again, and open my eyes. 

He's drawing a bottom. An upside-down bottom. God, he's such a juvenile! Why am I even interested in him? His apartment is dingy and his fridge is emptier than Barbie's head and he doesn't even have a bedroom, let alone a bed. I mean, what kind of husband would he make anyway? The worst; the absolute worst. I'd always be picking up his dirty clothes and scrubbing his bathroom and apologizing to the neighbors for the sound of porn seeping through the walls. All the stuff I manage to ignore when I go round there because it's nothing to do with me - all that stuff would suddenly have everything to do with me and I'd go nuts. I'd end up shooting him again. I don't know why I even give a shit. Who needs a husband anyway? I mean, I'm a modern woman - I don't need to think in those terms; I can pay my own rent, thank you very much. No, it's better that Fox Mulder stays in his apartment and I stay in mine. Much better.

Okay then, what kind of... boyfriend would he make? What a stupid word for someone in her mid-thirties to use. Boyfriend. Hello, this is my BOYfriend. Shades of Mrs Robinson. Ugh! I suppose I could say partner, but then we're already partners and I'd want to make the distinction. So, what? This is my lover? Boy, that sounds kind of slutty. Like I've already got a husband and a boyfriend and my lover completes the set. But I guess it's the best alternative and at least makes me feel like I'm out of my teens.

So, what kind of...lover would he make?

I grunt. I grunted! Oh no! Why did I grunt??

'Scully?' I surprised him.

I grunt again to throw him off the scent. After a few moments I hear the squeak of his finger against the steamy window. I'm safe.

Safe but hot.

I got hot thinking of what Mulder would be like as a lover. I grunted because of the tingle that ran from my sex to my belly at the mere idea of it. I guess I answered my own question. 

I hope I'm not blushing. Red hair is the most annoying thing sometimes. I can never hide a thing. Not an embarrassing, humiliating, shameful thing, anyway. What an asset! Shame THAT doesn't come free with every goddamned bottle of red hair dye ever sold.

He's gone quiet again. I can hear him breathing, soft and low. Has he fallen asleep? If he has, I'd better fall awake, sharpish. Sod's law our target will pick the 30 second while we've both got our eyes closed to make an appearance.

I open my eyes just a slit. He's not asleep. He's looking at his latest creation on the window. 

It's not an upside down bottom after all. It's a heart. With an arrow through it. And initials inside... 

DS 4 FM.

Together, yet separate, we look at the heart in the steam on the car window. Time seems to stand still.

And then he sighs and wipes it out with his elbow. Not hard this time. Soft and sort of regretful.

Then he turns to me and I close my eyes quickly. I can feel him watching me. Not moving, just watching. 

A tear rolls from under my lashes and down the side of my nose.

'Scully?' 

His hand is on my face again. 

'Scully?' Louder this time - he's trying to wake me, so I open my eyes to see him looking at me, all worried.

'You okay Scully?'

'I'm fine Mulder.'

'You were crying.'

'Was I?' I touch the tear away and sit up.

'Did you have a dream?'

'Mm.' I don't trust myself to say more.

He smiles a rare smile and strokes my hair off my face.

'Gone now?' he says, and I can only nod.

'You mind if I get some shut-eye?'

'Sure Mulder.'

He reclines his seat and rolls onto his side, facing me, pulling the collar of his coat up around his ears and tucking his hands into his armpits. He closes his eyes, his dark lashes falling in soft crescents onto his pale cheeks.

Within minutes he's asleep.

I stare out at the street through the blank space where the heart used to be.

I don't know why he rubbed it out.

It was a work of art.

END


End file.
